


venti cup of bad decisions, to-go, please

by petalprose



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, except no actual coffeeshop shows up in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalprose/pseuds/petalprose
Summary: Crowley sets a pot of coffee on fire. This is highly discouraging, because by next week, he is going to be a barista.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	venti cup of bad decisions, to-go, please

“This is horrendous,” says Aziraphale. The coffeepot is smoking. He’d only been out of the kitchen for two minutes. He doesn’t take his eyes off it, half-concerned it will burst into flames. “How did you manage to do this?”

Beside him, face flushed and suppressing an embarrassed frown, Crowley shrugs. “May be hard to believe but I genuinely do not know,” says Crowley. “I mean it. ‘m not the sort of person who’d throw a lit matchstick in with their cup of—“

“You _threw in a—“_

“Hyperbole. It was hyperbole, Aziraphale.” He’s quiet for a moment, shoulders creeping another inch closer to his ears, and then he says, “Though I can see why you wouldn’t rule out that I’d actually done it.”

The pot continues to smoke. Aziraphale takes the tartan-patterned oven mitten Crowley offers him, gingerly picks up the pot, and pours its contents down Crowley’s chrome sink. (It’s _Crowley’s_ _chrome sink_ the same way about half the kitchen implements in their shared flat above Aziraphale’s bookshop is Crowley’s: when he’d moved in, he’d taken one look around Aziraphale’s kitchen and decided to spend the rest of his money on high-end kitchen appliances.) “Explain to me how you got a job as a barista,” says Aziraphale, setting the pot down in the sink and turning the faucet on. “Explain to me _why_ you got a job as a barista, in fact.”

Crowley opens his mouth and says, “Thought it would be funny,” instead of, _I’ve got a crush on you the size of the sun and it’s insufferable, and I’d thought that with us living together exposure therapy might take effect, except it clearly hasn't because I still adore you, and now I can’t imagine not having you in my life, puttering about my space, and Anathema ranted to me about the coffeeshop trope and I couldn’t get it out of my head, and the cafe with the lemon drop cakes you like had a job opening, and I haven’t stopped thinking about flirting with you over the counter whenever you drop in—_

Aziraphale stops rinsing out the pot. It slowly begins to fill with water as he, with equal slowness, turns his head to look at Crowley. There’s incredulity in spades on his face, paired with exasperation. All in all, not the greatest combination, and Crowley acknowledges that he really could have gone with a better last-second excuse.

“Beg your pardon,” says Aziraphale, tone decidedly _not_ begging. He tips the pot over without looking away from Crowley, and Crowley can feel his dignity going down the drain side-by-side with the leftover coffee beans. Aziraphale manages to make the act of switching off the faucet ooze disbelief.

“Thought it would be funny,” repeats Crowley, and adds nothing else because, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’s dug his grave, and now he’s got no other choice but to lie in the pathetic thing. Go big or go home and interrupt your friend-and-also-crush while he’s rereading _T_ _he Portrait of Dorian Gray_ because you’ve just landed the job you applied for on a drunken, hopeful whim.

He and Aziraphale stare each other down. In the distance, somewhere across Soho, birds sing. Crowley leans against the kitchen counter, sullen and unwilling to rescind his answer.

Aziraphale breaks the silence first, his sentence the conversational equivalent of a sledgehammer. “You realize that your job as a barista will be drastically hindered by the fact that you are not, in fact, a barista.”

“Yes, I know,” says Crowley, “that’s why I’m asking you for help.”

“I feel I need to remind you that I am capable of following instructions in a cookbook, and that is about the extent of my culinary expertise.”

“That’s not true,” argues Crowley. “Aziraphale, I _live_ with you. Have been for the past seven months. I know for a _fact_ that, while you’ve boxed me into being your personal chef, the pastries you bake up are the closest thing to Heaven this mortal coil will ever have.”

“Coffee and its various iterations is a much different beast than _dough,_ Crowley.”

“I know,” says Crowley. “Look, you’ve got practically got the whole Library of Alexandria down in the bookshop, there has to be at least _one_ book about making espressos and the difference between _venti_ and _grande.”_

Aziraphale frowns at him and Crowley can almost hear the argument he’s holding back before he acquiesces with a sigh. “Open the windows to get the smoke out,” he says, already turning to leave. “I’ll get started looking for something.”

**Author's Note:**

> fill for day one of ineffable husbands au week, prompt coffeeshop au. brought to u by my sister and i filling our sala with smoke after trying to fry chicken at 3 am. have a good day <3!


End file.
